


Added Weight

by ArtofDeduction



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, Feeding, Force-Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Romance, Torture, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:22:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtofDeduction/pseuds/ArtofDeduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's miraculous return from the dead acted as the catalyst to Sherlock and John finally getting together romantically. Not too long after their relationship starts however, John is kidnapped by Moran. Moran tortures John by force-feeding him. When Sherlock finally finds and rescues John, he has gained a LOT of weight. John feels horrible and thinks that Sherlock will no longer want him as a partner in cases or romantically. Sherlock has to show him that he still wants John and that they will work through John’s weight issue together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John was fatter than Mycroft had ever been. His excess mass quivered as he ascended the stairs to his room, the wood creaking under his weight. He halted at the sixth step to catch his breath, mouth agape and red in the face. After a few seconds John resumed his ascent in a soldiers posture, climbing the rest of the stairs with stoic porpoise. Even now, one could tell the man was once a soldier. 

The door was slammed, and the lock ticked. John would be heaving for breath again, and then probably collapse on the bed to take a nap. Sherlock hoped it would be a short dreamless one.

Sherlock had offered John his own room, but John had declined, irked at the mere suggestion. “I need the exercise.”, he had said. One couldn’t deny that John did, but not necessarily like that. John would be so fatigued from going up the steep stairway to 221B and the stairs to his room, that he would spend much more time up there.  
The residence of John’s laptop and medical magazines had drifted from the living room to his bedroom, which wasn’t even sometimes their bedroom anymore. He wasn’t going down to join Sherlock, let alone to actually exercise with any real frequency. The most exorcise John would do up there was attempt pushups. The flat walls were thin, so Sherlock could always hear it. He would try a few, his gut pinning him to the floor, and then there would be silence, marking his move to bed.

Sherlock would explain a deduction or make a comment to John, only to find that doctor wasn’t at ears length. He was finally home, but still not there. Sherlock hoped John would lose enough of the weight soon just so that he could stop being so down over it and things could go back as they had been. Back to their relationship before he faked his death or how their relationship had evolved after. Either would be fine.

John descended the stairs at seven to make dinner. He was mixing chicken with salad greens, a dull meal which John favored these days. Long gone were the days when weekly takeaway was the norm. If Sherlock decided to be thoughtful and buy takeaway, John would decline, and the extra food would spoil in the refrigerator. Even Mrs. Hudson’s offerings were abandoned. He would politely eat in the landlady’s presence, only to not touch the rich meals again as soon as it she was gone. 

A least John was actually eating now, which was progress. The healthy food he made for himself was nothing like the fattening foods he had been forced to consume in Moran’s presence. John always gave Sherlock twice the portion he gave himself, though the detective still never ate all of it. 

They ate together, John filling past the entirety of the chair across from him. He was wearing a baggy grey sweatshirt that would have never gone with his wardrobe before. Gone were the cuddly jumpers and buttoned shirts. The sweatshirt could not hide his gut, the swell of which covered the majority of his lap. If anything, the sweatshirt made him look even bigger. Sherlock had a feeling if he commented on this John might punch him and storm to his room again.

The meal was silent, but not a comfortable silences like those that used to exist between them. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure if John looked more angered at him or the slowly dwindling plate of food in front of him. He had every right to be.

He had been so very slow. To think that someone with less intellect than Moriarty could outsmart him for so long was an insult. The time hunting Moriaty’s web had quickened his reflexes and apparently dulled his mind. He had been so sure he had destroyed every key player of Moriarty’s web before his return. He was wrong and John had paid the price. 

He didn’t like to dwell on it, but he was lucky that other, more despicable things hadn’t happened to John. The John standing in front of him was distant and shaken, and overweight to a disadvantage, but he wasn’t dead, as Sherlock’s ineptitude had made possible. He had imagined scenario after scenario, a John dead of affixation, a John starved and even skinnier than he had been on Sherlock’s return, a bullet wound through his head, IOU spelt with his blood. He relived these lost possibilities in his nightmares, his illogical subconscious creating reminders in his mind. He had never considered the scenario that had actually happened to John. 

It was a relief to visit John in his room after waking from these nightmares. He would be in his bed, a bulky lump under the duvet, the blanket gently rising and falling with the doctor’s breathing.

John’s plate was finally emptied, the dressing above his lips removed with a swipe of his napkin. A low rumble came from John’s stomach then, and his face pinched in embarrassment. This was not an uncommon occurrence. John’s body was so used the constant nourishment he received in his captivity, that the portions he fed himself would to nothing to quell his hunger. Sherlock pretended to not hear the rumble, taking his own plate and placing it in the sink. 

He had to think of something, something to keep John down here. His eyes wandered around the flat before lingering on the Telly. That might do it. He had glanced at the TV guide station when Mrs. Hudson had it on earlier. 

“They are showing one of your Bond movies at eight if you’d like to watch?”

John turned to Sherlock, interest in his face. “When we watched the marathon, you kept pointing out all the plot holes and deducing the actors lives when you were supposed to be immersed in their characters. You ruined the entire series for me.”

“You know you enjoyed my commentary more than the films. Plus, I don’t think I’ve watched this one yet.”

“What’s one more ruined, sure.”, John said, a smile playing across his face. This was a good idea.

They sat on the couch, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service starting to play. Sherlock held true to his reputation and started deducing the cast at the first scene, to John’s amusement. Peculiarly, everything was as it should be. 

Sherlock was inching closer to John as the movie went on, not even aware he was doing it. It was dark and John took up more of the couch than he used to, so when Sherlock did a hand gesture at an absurd plot point in the film, his hand ended up brushing across the doctor’s belly. Sherlock was startled. Watching James Bond with John had been so much like going back in time, that he had forgotten John was now fat beside him.

His hand had frozen on John’s belly before he removed it and apologized. 

Sherlock continued making deductions about the cast and pointing out plot holes. John didn’t laugh again. 

John’s warm belly had not felt bad to the touch.


	2. Chapter 2

**6 Months Earlier**

It was a shiny black Volvo that stopped in front of John, wet from rain, the backseat lightly illuminated by a woman’s mobile phone. John was holding the shopping, and had tried and failed to hail a cab for ten minutes before the black car appeared. He didn’t have his umbrella, nor his flat-mate’s magic cab hailing abilities. So when the woman in the backseat gestured for him to come inside, John didn’t give much thought to how it might possibly not be Mycroft summoning him, and hurriedly entered the car. 

John had not seen Mycroft much since Sherlock’s return. He was already in a foul mood, so he didn’t think he would mind the detour to speak to him. Sherlock’s elder brother had been curiously absent lately, not sticking his nose visibly in his brothers business.

Mycroft did not approve of Sherlock and John’s change of relationship and had let him know as much in a terse meeting in a car outside 221B. According to Mycroft, Sherlock wasn’t capable of a normal romantic relationship, and Sherlock’s affection for John, now grown into something more, would only get in the detective’s way.

John thought this was utter bullshit. Their relationship wasn’t quite normal, sure, but normal was hardly a concept one would ever associate with Sherlock Holmes. It didn’t need to be. It was far different from any of John’s other relationships, and not just in his partner’s gender. His relationship with Sherlock, which felt like a natural extension of their friendship, felt more real to him than any of the others ever had. And as for getting in the detective’s way – Sherlock was as brilliant as ever in solving cases, and kissing the man instead of just praising him when he said something clever hardly changed that. The man deserved to have more than just the triumph of solving cases.

Mycroft had been the one aware that Sherlock was alive those two years, while John remained ignorant, his view of London never more grey. John understood why he was made to believe Sherlock was dead by now, but that didn’t mean that the situation did not still irk him. John could have protected Sherlock far more, had he been the one on Sherlock’s side. 

He had started to sense that something might be off when he noticed the car was heading towards the opposite direction of London. Surely Mycroft could find a warehouse closer to his flat? He had Sherlock’s favorite ice cream, an expensively branded pistachio, which he would rather not have melt. The car had a mini fridge, but no freezer. 

The detective was still terribly thin, as was apparent when John ran his hands over the detective’s scared chest in bed and felt not only, the bruises of conflicts that John had been absent for, but prominent ribs. 

John would get more meat on the detective’s bones, even if it meant feeding him up with sweets as one would a picky child. It would be nice to see the buttons of Sherlock’s formerly tight, buttoned shirts straining again.

John turned to the woman beside him, whose eyes reluctantly left her phone to rest on John. She definitely wasn’t Anthea, but they could be sisters with their habits. “Where are we heading? I’d like to be home soon.”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that information. We will be there within the half hour”

John sighed. Though longer than he’d like, that wasn’t that bad. “This better be important.”, he replied, letting his eyes close.

In twenty minutes time, John could definitely say he had no idea where they were. They had switched to a dirt road surrounded by trees, a rural area completely contrasting from the industry of London. It wasn’t Mycroft’s usual style. It had stopped raining, but it was still dark, the grey cloud overhead threatening another downpour.

The car halted suddenly, the wet ground beneath them skidding the car before its stop.   
“Exit now, Dr. Watson.” the woman said. John did as he was told, stepping onto the muddy ground. “Should I leave my groceries here?”   
“We will take care of them. Let me put this on you”, she said, holding out a blindfold. John blocked her hand. “This is getting weird, let me see Mycroft.” John said firmly.   
“You will. We just need to take precautions”, the woman replied, stepping closer to John.  
“This is ridiculous. I refuse to take another step before-.” 

John felt a stabbing sensation in his arm. The woman and surrounding trees were quickly loosing focus around him, his thoughts blurring along with them. He saw a blur of tall individual in what he still recognized as army green before the world completely faded from his view.


End file.
